Taboo
by makapedia
Summary: For weapon and meister, partnership is a staple. For Soul and Maka, though, it's something more. A soul-deep bond becomes physical, too. Maka's always been the curious type, anyway; what would it feel like to kiss her scythe? [ Reverb 2016 ]
1. Chapter 1

**aah! welcome to reverb 2016! biiig thanks to my artists, bendandcurl and redphlox, for coming up with this idea and just being all around wonderful to work with. bendy's posting some really cool art and julie's playlist is also going to be going up sometime today on tumblr, so look out for them! of course, thank you also to the reverb mods for organizing the event and just all of the hard work that went into things this year, and thank you a thousand times to proma and madi for betaing!**

 **this is nsfw. this is weaponsexual. you have been warned.**

* * *

She thinks about her weapon a lot.

Maka suspects, for the first few weeks, that this is standard meister fare. She's the proud partner of a shiny new scythe, and despite his questionable posture and tendency to spit when he talks, how can she not be excited, knowing she's taking the necessary steps toward becoming a great meister like her mama? She's Maka Albarn, emphasis on the Albarn, and she has a legacy to uphold. Of course her partner is something to obsess over, of _course._

But then weeks turn into months, which turn into years, and Maka begins to suspect things aren't quite what they seem.

At eighteen, she shouldn't still think about the heat and pulse of demonsteel in her hands, shouldn't still think about the implications of the way his soul shudders when she grips him that little bit tighter in the heat of battle. Maka shouldn't linger on the intimacy of it all, on how right it feels to be connected to him on such an emotional, metaphysical level. Or, perhaps, on the boundless power she feels with her scythe in her grasp, the _rightness_ of wielding Soul, the courage that comes with her meisterhood.

At eighteen, she shouldn't wonder if resonance for her partner is as groundbreaking as it is for her. If maybe, maybe, Soul feels the same hum of lingering fever and desire every time they link souls.

Because she sure does. She feels a lot of things - things she's not so sure are strictly _meister_ related.

Like right now, for example, as she stands between a slobbering pre-kishin and the wide, open Wyoming plains. Instead of running through battle strategies and the best way to cleave the head off of a monster, she's much more interested in the buzz that runs through Soul's handle when he growls her name. Which, _oh_ \- she should really be paying attention to the battle at hand, because Soul does it again, and Maka finally snaps to attention, narrowly sidestepping a swipe of mangled claws.

This mission sucks. This whole punishment sucks. There's so much open space in Wyoming. Sure, it makes for an easy battlefield, but Maka has always taken comfort in being able to dive behind trees, should she find herself too close to her target and unable to properly slice at them with her scythe.

She blames Soul for skipping class again. She blames herself for falling prey to his puppy eyes. She blames Black*Star for being a conniving little asshole and convincing her otherwise well-meaning weapon to graffiti a giant dick on the Death Room door.

"Maka!" Soul roars again, and something shudders into place within her. Like magic, she is all meister again, hard eyes and iron-clad asskickery compacted into such short stature as she slams the butt of Soul's pole into the beast's chest. "God, about time! What's gotten into you, spacing out like that-"

His voice is so rough when he's impassioned. That thought certainly doesn't leave her very easily. Instead, it soaks beneath her skin, twisting, swelling, and Maka swallows thickly as she mutters, "Sorry," instead of giving him a real answer.

Because partnership is important. Their _connection_ is important. They work because they're in sync, because Soul reads the battle and Maka delivers the blows, with morbid grace in every hefty arch of her weapon's blade. And if Soul even gets a whiff of what's going on in her head while he's in her hands and aiding her in narrowly avoiding certain death, well-

" _Maka!"_

She tumbles back into the grass, wind whipping around her, as the pre-kishin roars again.

It's not like her to be so out of it. Without her head in the game, it seems as though she's useless, just a little girl wielding her giant deathweapon without a clue, like she's twelve all over again and starry-eyed as she first dons her academy-approved uniform. It's dangerous, and she's not that girl anymore - so she cries out, lands a steel-toed kick to this beast's slimy, rickety neck, and rolls until she's back on her feet, fire lit bright in her eyes.

And Soul grins from the reflection of his blade, bare shoulders glowing like forbidden fruit, smile sharp like razors.

.

Soul slurps down the tainted soul like dinner and grins lazily at her through the afternoon light, and something within her buzzes, excited.

It's not just the part about wielding him that makes her wonder sometimes. It's him, too, and his mouth - mostly his tongue, and how damn long and dexterous it is as it laces around the stem of those evil souls he loves so much. She thinks about it a lot, about how they must taste, or feel going down, and why he likes it so much - and before she knows it, the words are spilling from her lips, voice thick, and Soul looks up at her, brows raised.

Maka's face darkens with pink. "Um-!"

As if considering his answer, Soul drags his tongue over his lips and fuck, _fuck,_ he should stop doing that. It kind of makes her want to cry, because she knows it's not an appropriate thing to fixate on. As a meister, Maka has reign over her weapon, over the cut of his blade and the grace of his arcs, but she can do nothing to control his mouth - that's _his_ and _his alone,_ and dammit all if she isn't curious.

Soul scratches his cheek. "You wanna know what they taste like?"

Maka blinks and says, "Yes?"

"I mean, it's not really the taste that makes them so great. It's like… water, you know? The more disturbed souls are a little tangier, I guess. Kind of sour," he admits, shrugging, shoulders sinking with well-practiced ease as he shoves his hands into his pockets. Soul has no business looking so good with messy hair and dirt dusting over his eyebrow. "The texture is the really great part. It's smooth, I guess. And hot."

Because she has no censor, Maka asks, "Was Arachne's soul different?"

She tells herself it's because, for so long, she had strived to make him into a death scythe, and feeding him a witch's soul was written in the instruction manual. This is fair game, she thinks passionately, and has nothing to do with wanting to know so much about him, wanting to know everything that makes him both weapon and boy. Feeding him souls makes him stronger. She's not weird. She's not.

Soul purses his lips and she stares like a woman starved, mouth dry.

"Arachne's was kind of salty?" he says, a short laugh caught in his throat. Soul raises a wrist to his mouth and wipes with his sleeve, as if he were drooling, and _that_ catches Maka's attention more than anything else. "Kind of crunchy, too. Uuugh, and there were legs. Spider legs. But not real spider legs, just, like, soul-y legs squirming as it went down. Like it was trying to crawl back up."

"Ew?"

"Ew," Soul says, nodding. "Anyway, let's go back to the hotel. I'm starving."

Her brows knit together. "Soul, you just _ate_."

He laughs and claps a hand over her shoulder. His arm is warm, and his body even warmer, as he tugs her closer. "I'm not all weapon, bookworm. Soul wants to be a real boy sometimes, too."

But he is a real boy 50% of the time. He's flesh and bone and infuriating, sharp-toothed grins that make her stomach stir and blood run hot - but he's also steel, weaponkind, a large, imposing scythe with jagged black-and-red detailing. He is simultaneously both man and scythe. If she were anyone else, had been raised anywhere else, she might find it terrifying. She doesn't.

Instead, there's heat looming in her belly. Maka clenches her fist.


	2. Chapter 2

The motel is kind of dingy. Soul suspected as much, of course, just from the mere prospect of renting a room in some asscrack town in _Wyoming_ , but _goddamn_. The heater's busted. He's not sure if the bathroom door closes all of the way. There's not a single Starbucks for miles. Domino's doesn't deliver out here. There's one bed.

 _There's one bed._

He tries to not think too hard on that fact. There are three pillows, two sheets, one comforter and a single mattress to split between the two of them, and Soul's had a hard enough time coexisting with her through a paper-thin wall lately, never mind potentially bumping elbows while they sleep. It's a ridiculous thing to worry about; he's practically grown up beside her through thick and thin, and, more importantly, puberty without anything partnership-altering happening. So sure, Maka's a little (barely) taller now and sure, she's filled out since the age of thirteen, but so what. She's still Meister Maka. She's still Maka _fucking_ Albarn, ball-crushing, kishin-slaying queen, and she's his best friend. His partner.

He's totally staring at her hands like a little creep as she unbuttons her coat. Soul's blood runs hot and he dumps himself onto the rickety mattress.

"I call first shower!" Maka says, and he can hear her boots creaking and squeaking as she kicks them off. One thump and then two. He rests his cheek on the blanket and watches her shoes hit the wall.

He snorts shortly. "Don't dent the room, Maka. We can't afford to pay extra."

"Ooh! I think Kid can spare the change," she says, so huffy, stomping around like an angry little thing. "What a useless mission. Anyone could have done this, but a death scythe? Why?"

"Punishment," he quips easily. "You just happen to be the lucky meister who picked the short straw."

Maka clicks her tongue. He peeks through his bangs to find her staring at him, hand resting on her popped hip. "You're not the short straw, Soul," she says, shaking her head, crooked pigtails bouncing faithfully as she turns on her heel. "You're my partner, I wouldn't let you go alone. We're in this together, remember? No matter what."

"Starbucks or not?" he calls distractedly. The banter is routine, but that sway of her hips has his tongue a little numb. Hips and long, _long_ legs, strong thighs that he'd felt clenched around his shaft (metal, unfortunately) only minutes before on the trip back demand his attention like nothing else ever has. Maka hums in response, slipping through the bathroom door, and Soul flops back onto the bed.

 _Death._

When it boils down to it, there's almost nothing Soul Evans wouldn't give to be anyone else but Maka's sentient butter knife and overall guard dog.

Not, of course, that he doesn't love his job, because he _really fucking loves_ his job. It's a good fit for him, he thinks. A face like his isn't built for the limelight like Wes'. No, with his mug, he's much better suited for the battlefield, fighting for his meister's life and baring his teeth and trading flesh and bone for demonsteel at the drop of a hat. It's his gift. It's in his blood, just as much as being an Evans is, only _this_ gift is a choice.

A choice he knows he'd make time and time again, if it means smiling meisters with doll eyes and a threatening right hook. Soul lets out a breath and mashes a hand through his hair.

Sometimes, though, he wonders what it would be like to just be a normal guy. A normal guy into a normal girl, without worries of the monsters roaming the streets and the demon lurking in his head. He wouldn't have to feel so guilty about wanting her so badly. He could pursue her, maybe, if he wasn't so bound by responsibility. There are duties he must serve as a weapon, and one of those is keeping his meister safe. How, how, _how_ can he keep her safe, though, if he's too busy sticking his tongue down her throat or dreaming about her hands in places they've never dared to stray?

His self-depreciating laugh fills the room like applause. Well. One of those is already an issue.

He is her right hand man. Her confidant. Her best friend, her roommate, her partner, and he wears his admiration and love and respect for her like a badge, torn down the center of his chest.

But her _hands._

The sound of water hitting skin is louder than anything else in the dingy motel room. The only thing that rings louder is Maka's contented _sigh,_ and then Soul's rolling onto his stomach again _immediately._

.

Resonance just sort of happens sometimes.

They never mean it. A lot of the time, it's at night, while their guards are down and the lull of sleep beckons their vulnerable minds like a siren song. When Soul's in that delicious place right between sleep and awareness, he can feel Maka's soul, so close by, and in no time at all it becomes difficult to separate what is Soul and what is Maka. He feels her warmth, her insecurity, her courage, and knows, somehow, that she must feel the same from him. Resonance is a two way street. It's not something he can conjure up on his own - both parties have to be willing.

He doesn't care to dig deeper than that. Whatever lies beyond bone-deep loyalty and admiration for her is no man's land. It's the really private stuff, the warm feeling in his chest when she smiles at him in the early mornings, with her hair in her face - the ache he feels, low, low in his very soul, when she grips his weapon form that little bit tighter.

Sometimes, though, they don't fall asleep right away. And tonight is just one of those nights. Resonance buzzes through his fingertips like a maddeningly seductive song and he wants to play, needs to play, but there's not a piano in sight.

Soul hears Maka sigh deeply. "Mmmnn- Soul?"

"Whuh?"

She rolls over to face him, blinking groggily, parting her lips. "I can feel you," she slurs sleepily, green eyes half-lidded and molten, melted green evergreens mesmerizing him lazily. "It's like... "

"Resonance?" he asks, voice cracking.

"Mmm. We always do that."

He wants to reach out and comb her hair back. Her bangs hang in her eyes and she sighs slowly, so very full of sleepy wonder, that very feeling of enlightenment and worldliness that comes with exhaustion and resonance. Maka is always hardwired so tightly, built tall from her responsibilities and morals - stubborn, resilient, _bookish_ Maka - and when she allows herself a moment of weakness, allows herself to let loose and unbutton her collar, it is always a delight. Right before sleep, when she's tucked into bed and smiling at him, slow and syrupy, Soul often wonders if she's looking at his soul. She always seems to see things that no one else ever does.

"We're _partners,_ " Soul reasons.

Snuggling her cheek further into their shared pillow, she says, "But I can always feel you," she mutters, almost delighted, and taps a finger to her chest. "Right here. You're always right here."

The moment is sweet, but he is still Soul, so he buries the squishy, vulnerable fluttering in his chest, cracks a grin and asks, "Your tit?"

" _Idiot,_ " Maka huffs, spreading her palm flat over his chest. Her skin is warm, strong fingers and subtle callouses dotting her fingertips from wielding him, he knows, and it does nothing to quell the burning in his blood. She looks at him, all parts meister and girl and _Maka_ and his brain goes fuzzy for a moment. "In my soul. And my heart. You're so loud."

"Pfff. _You're_ the loud one. Always jabbering and talking my ear off about homework and how stressed you are-"

"One of us has to," she says, pouting.

Her fingers catch at the ridge of his scar, puckered, stitched flesh. With her lip sucked beneath her teeth, she follows the jagged line down, tracing each raise and fault in his flesh as she passes his navel. Something jumps in his stomach, excited and forbidden, and Soul finds himself moving his hand to grab her wrist before anything happens.

"Where do you go, Soul, when you transform?"

"I don't _go_ anywhere. I'm your scythe, remember? Did that pre-kishin drop you too hard or something?"

"No, like…" Maka purses her lips, fidgeting, wrist turning in his grasp. "What does it feel like to transform? How does it translate?"

It must be late. They've been partners for years, resonated literally hundreds of times, and yet now is the moment she decides to think too deeply. The schematics of his transformation have never been clear. He is boy and also weapon, equal parts human and kishin-slaying death, and that's always just been that.

Until now. Her brow dips sleepily and she squints at him through the lowlight of the hotel room. The blinking alarm clock casts devilish red shadows through the gold of her hair and that indescribable ache is back, looming low in his gut. Phantom pains shoot up his arms, through his fingers - and he can't help but wonder what it would be like to hold her, without the pretense of mere partnership, can't help but wonder what it would be like to be held _by_ her and her strong, capable hands.

Soul barely bites back the urge to brush her bangs from her face. Instead, he tightens his grasp around her squirming wrist, _something_ beneath the waistband of his pants moving in tandem. Pesky pesky.

"I don't know. It's like parting my hair a different way. It's just another part of me," he mumbles, watching the way she drinks in his wisdom greedily. "Your dad's a weapon too. You could've just asked him if you were so curious."

Maka gives a little shrug, dying down in his hands, melting like butter. She's so damn comfortable around him, and that's something that's going to haunt his dreams tonight - _if he ever falls asleep,_ for fuck's sake. "I guess I never thought about it that way before," she says, voice low, as if she's afraid of rousing the quiet exchange they have going on. "But it's a little funny, you know? I can see you in your blade's reflection - and you're naked, Soul -" her brows crease, again, and she bites that pink lip of hers delicately. "You're naked, Soul. A-Are you like, actually, for real naked, or-?"

He drops her wrists because touching her skin and having this conversation is way too much stimulation for one boy. "Fuck."

She lights up pink. It's distressing how badly he wants to follow the blush blooming down her neck with his mouth. "It's not your fault if you're naked, I mean, I'm pretty sure it's a weapon thing- but it's just- it's weird, you're not naked when we're dancing in your soul space, and you don't lose your clothes when you become a scythe? They're still there when you transform back."

"Maybe my scythe is like a set of clothes. I mean, I'm naked under my clothes right now. You are too."

Maka purses her lips, then says, "I _guess_ so."

But she's not convinced, that much is clear. His meister is curious almost to a fault, and Soul's afraid, with the resonance buzzing between them, she might uncover something she shouldn't within him.

When her fingers graze the rise of his scar again his blood pounds in his ear. There are places meister hands belong - in his, or clutching the handle of his weapon form - but grazing along his lower abdomen certainly is not one of them. _Especially_ not while they're discussing his state of dress (or lack thereof) while he is acting as her tool of mass destruction. _Especially especially_ not while there's murky resonance buzzing between them and he can't stop thinking about the callouses on her fingers and how he'd kind of like to kiss them.

(Or, of course, how he'd like to kiss several parts of her, in varying levels of appropriateness).

She blinks slowly, syrupy, and licks her lips. He stares, helplessly, as her nails catch his scar's stitching. Soul tells himself that the part that longs for her grip (and for her thighs pressing his hips down) comes from the weapon half of him - the part that would die for her, the instinctual something that washes over him like a protective, watch-dog haze. It does little to soothe the storm within him, though, and his edges fray just that little bit more the longer she looks at him with those half-lidded eyes, tiny green infernos thawing him to his core.

He's unravelling, helplessly, and it's only minutes later, when her palm lays flat against the center of his chest, does he realize that they're still resonating, and he's been broadcasting these secret, taboo feelings for his partner like a satellite.

"Soul," Maka says, blonde lashes looking ashy and mysterious as she crooks her head, leaning up onto her elbows to hover over him. "Transform."


	3. Chapter 3

He's a little like a bug under a microscope with the way he's looking at her.

Or maybe he's like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His eyes are wide, perhaps even a bit guilty, as he fidgets, squirming and bumping his knees against hers. It's kind of a treat, in a way, to watch Soul crack open like an egg; her partner is ordinarily so stone faced, half resting bitch face and half bored indifference, but right now his eyes are blunt and honest, swimming with that interesting, restrained lust she'd heard only moments before, and how can she not act on it?

Her weapon stammers, attempting to peel her hand from his skin. "I- _what,_ Maka, it's like _midnight,_ what the fuck-"

"It's okay, I just- Soul, really, it's fine, just transform, would you?"

"Why," he huffs, pouting, cheeks endearingly rosy. "Gonna make fun of me?"

It's much too humid in their dinky hotel room for this. It's not even summer, for goodness sake, and she's lived in the desert heat all of her life. But with the way Soul's looking at her, all wild, heated eyes and the degree of his blushing, it's no wonder it feels like the room's heater might actually be working.

"Why would I make fun of you," she asks, gradually scooting her way closer to him again - slowly, _slowly,_ as if approaching a skittish cat. "You're my partner, Soul, resonance is just a thing that happens sometimes, remember? It's not either of our faults if sometimes things just slip through-"

He stares at the ceiling, jaw locked. " _Things._ "

"Yes," Maka says, " _things_. I don't see why you're so embarrassed, I wield your shaft all the time-"

Soul very nearly wheezes, and the mattress trembles beneath the weight of his shock. "Don't say it like _that!_ "

"Your _handle,_ " she says, gritting her teeth, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she sits straighter. From her position, hovering over him, he looks almost pretty, with tousled hair and heat blooming across his face like watercolors. She casts a barely-there shadow over him, a skinny, unimposing silhouette, but he still remains beneath her, pinned to the spot under her gaze. It's not the first time she's noticed this power she has over him, this taketaketake and unspoken control she effortlessly wields like a second scythe, but it is the first time it's had such intimate connotations.

She has a handle on him in more ways than just his weapon form. And he knows it, too, judging by the way he lays there, not even tempted by the many escape route open to him, even in the face of his embarrassment.

Breath loud, she says, "I heard it."

His brows raise fractionally. "Heard _what._ "

"You. Your thoughts. Kind of… just... " She raises a hand, spreads her fingers, wiggles the tips and watches him zero in on the motion like a hawk. Maka wonders if he even realizes he's doing it. "... You're not weird."

He gives a strangled laugh. "I'm kind of weird, Maka. Think you heard that pretty clearly."

"It can't be _that_ weird if _I_ feel it too."

Soul Evans is a wildfire, and he shakes her with nothing more than his eyes. It can't be weird to feel like this, she thinks, watching each rise and fall of his chest, watching him blink and lick his lips and watch _her_. How can it be weird, if every moment of her life has been leading up to this one? If she's been raised on the idea of trusting her very soul to one person - her weapon, her partner - to grow and fight and die for each other? How can it be weird to love this someone so impossibly, so fully?

How can it be weird to love him no matter the form? They're _connected,_ inevitably, undebatably, and there is no Maka without Soul, just as there is no Soul without Maka. They are weapon and meister. Partners. Soulmates.

He breathes in deep and then holds in the breath. When he finally releases it, she feels it in her lungs, filling her with this ballooning, incredible heat, and she knows that without a doubt, this moment in time is sacred. Soul cracks, breaking like a promise, and he blinks at her, watching her hair as it falls over her shoulder as he mumbles, "You do?"

Her finger taps her chest. "Mmm," she hums, afraid to make too much noise and break the magic of the moment. He's managed to cast a spell with nothing more than the buzzing of his soul around hers. "Right here."

He grins like the devil. "In your tit?"

"Don't ruin it again, Soul."

His grip warms her hip. Maybe, just maybe, she could let herself indulge in the dig of his fingertips on her bare skin, on her waist, her thighs. She wants to bury herself in his protective grasp, that possessive way he seems to loom over her without preamble, the way he watches her move through a room, hidden beneath a mess of white hair and perpetual slouch. Maka wonders if he realizes that she's bound to him in the same way he's bound to her - she might be the meister, and she may call the shots, but there will never be anyone else for her the way Soul is.

Their resonance is a sort of unstoppable magnetism, and really, it comes to no surprise when her lips find his, only seconds later, while she pushes his hair from his face and curves over him like a weeping willow.

.

There is a sense of completeness that comes with kissing her partner. For a moment, she is no longer just part to a whole - she is tangled so deeply in an unbreakable, unfathomable bond, tied tight with red ribbon, soul deep. And his hands. And his lips. And his _mouth._

It escalates, because he's Soul and she's Maka and they always seem to bring out the kindling in each other. Her knees sit on either side of his hips while he plants warm, wet kisses on her mouth, all clumsy, adoring tongue and searing passion as he cups her face securely in his hands. It's impossible for her not to fall under his spell, because she's watched him swallow the souls of the damned a few too many times and now she finally understands what his tongue feels like. A little strange, a little tough, a little loving. It's Soul's, alright, and she loves it.

This position only has one drawback - she has to brace herself with her hands to remain over him, when more than anything, she wants to map out his flesh with her palms and memorize the feeling of him trembling and breathing beneath her. The bookworm in her wants to know everything. The aroused part of her wants to strip him down and ride him for all that he's worth, wings or not.

"Maka," he chants against her lips, over and over, like little punctuation between every prolonged stanza of messy contact. Kissing is warm and wet and probably gross with anyone else, but with Soul it's exciting and comforting and heart-stopping and right, in a strange sort of way. His fingers dust over her cheeks and she takes the chance to bite his lip. " _Mmmhh._ "

That's a sound she'd like to hear again. Maka nibbles a little, brows raised, and Soul whimpers and hisses, sliding his hands down from her face to grip her shoulders.

"Maka," he says again, when she sinks lower and begins trailing kisses along his bare neck. "Maka, Maka, Maka."

"Soul," she parrots back, biting his throat for good measure. The way he arches into her and moans is entirely worth her efforts. " _Soul._ "

"Fuuuuck," he groans, low and gravelly, as she licks his bobbing Adam's apple out of sheer curiosity. One peek tells her he's staring at the ceiling, chin pointed high, as he pushes her hair from her face. "I wanna- can I-"

"You still haven't _transformed,_ " Maka cuts in, whining. "I asked you to do that like fifteen minutes ago."

Soul breathes deeply, combing his fingers through her hair. "Got a little sidetracked," he croaks, voice dipping lower, somehow, and shaking something deep and primal within her. "I will, I just wanna… you're warm, and I wanna-"

Before he can finish, she's ripping her shirt over her head and sitting tall on his hips. For once, she's not even a little upset at the way Soul can't seem to meet her eyes. His gaze seems fixed just a notch lower, and his composure breaks that little bit more, lips parting, hands cupping her biceps as she lets out a nervous breath. There are silvery scars dotting her skin like the arches of her ribs, and though she's older, she's still not nearly as developed as Blair or Tsubaki or even Jackie, but Soul doesn't look at her any differently.

He licks his lips again. "I… uh…"

Because he doesn't make a move and she's impatient, she takes both of his hands and presses his palms to her breasts. Soul swallows thickly, and she certainly feels _something_ shift beneath her, harder than any demonsteel she's handled before.

When she smiles, he shifts beneath her. "E-Easy, speed racer-"

" _Tiny tits_ ," Maka whispers.

" _Tits_ are tits," Soul fires right back, but there's a rosy blush warming his complexion. "'Nd yours are-" he cuts himself off, shyly, biting his lip, watching his hand move over her soft flesh. There's a certain possessiveness in the way he cups her in his grip, a fondness that would choke thirteen-year-old Maka up and paint her face red. As it is, it thaws her a little, and she watches him with a soft affection as he rolls his hips instinctively. "... they're yours."

She wouldn't dare laugh. "They're small."

"They're part of you," he insists, and there's that heat in his stare again, burning bright like a furnace. _He's_ a furnace, for goodness sake, and his fingers brush over her perked nipples with deep-rooted reverence. "Small or not."

"They're not _too_ small?"

He snorts. Pushes himself up onto his elbows and puckers his lips. She falls into him out of habit and they kiss, barely, briefly, and he mutters, "Nah," into her mouth. "Anything more than a handful is a waste."

"That's not what you said when you were thirteen," she says, only half-bitingly. Maka's a bit mesmerized by the feeling of his lips brushing against hers, the way his breath warms her upper lip, the way his lashes look when he blinks, and everything else is a little hard to deal with. She can't separate herself from him now, not while they're intertwined so essentially. "You said nobody could ever-"

"I was wrong," he says. "And you're really hot."

" _Soul._ "

Resonance bleeds his truths through, though - his mouth might be blunt and his teeth sharp, but beneath his rough exterior, Maka feels his compassion, his devotion, his admiration. He might be the reigning king of aloof apathy and even indifference, but there's a lot of squishy, sentimental feelings brewing within her scythe, and he smiles crookedly at her, hands sliding firm to her thighs. She hears things like _beautiful_ and _incredible_ and _angel,_ even, whispered all around her and stroking her very soul. _Idiot._

And she wonders, not for the first time, if his steel would feel just as rewarding under her as his flesh. If her feelings for him - if wanting him, both inside and out - extending to both of his forms, metal and man, makes her a bad meister or not. If maybe he wants the same.

He is her weapon partner, and she is his meister. On and off of the battle field.

Her hands itch. Blood runs hot. She needs him in her grip, like a heart needs a beat, and out of routine, she mutters, "Transform," and Soul's bound to her word like the faithful weapon he is.


	4. Chapter 4

Maybe they're both a little weird.

Separation of his steel and flesh is irrelevant. For him, it's never really mattered what form he was in, as long as Maka was there, holding him tight. What is the difference, really, between Maka's gloved hand gripping his handle while whipping him around, slicing the demons of the night in half and Maka's bare hand, bitten nails and all, clasped tight around his in the academy's halls? Either way, he is with his meister. His _best friend._ His soulmate and everything in between, and there's no where he feels more safe and at home than in her hands.

It's _natural_ for him to gravitate toward her. It has to be; he's spent years learning to trust her with his life, learning to open himself up, learning to cohabitate, and how can he be expected to not fall in love with her? She's seen his darkest parts and still smiles at him like he's worth something. And she's let him see her fears - brave, courageous, insecure Maka - and if that isn't something worth protecting, well, then he doesn't know what is.

He thinks about her a lot. Mostly her eyes, and her smile, and the way her hair falls over her shoulder when she's reading and he has to fight back the instinctual urge to brush it from her face. But a lot of the time he lingers on thoughts of her skills, too, and how strong she is, how she has the face of a doll and the strength of a warrior. She is both adorable and powerful, and she is Maka, angel at her core and soul-reaper by profession; how is he not supposed to love her?

And sure, okay, it's a little (a lot) weird to the average civ that their soul-deep connection as weapon and meister might translate to the bedroom, too. Yeah, maybe it's his metal shaft in her hands and not his cock, and yeah, he's still undeniably aroused by it, but in their life it all makes perfect sense. He is Soul either way. He loves her either way. It's not the shape or the form that matters, it's the soul - and he is _her_ Soul to the end.

Maka's practically vibrating with excitement. He is, too, of course, but he tries to quiet that down to more sustainable levels so she doesn't hear his desires screaming through their bond.

But she hears, of course, and then she gets this look on her face. A dangerous little smile perks her lips and then he's plopping down on the bed - probably looking silly, a giant scythe amidst hotel pillows and white sheets - and she's tucking her fingers into the waistband of her sleep shorts. As if having her topless wasn't distracting enough; he's practically salivating at the prospect of more of her to worship with his eyes. It's a little voyeuristic of him. He doesn't mention it, and she doesn't say anything, just stares at him with that fiery hardness in her eyes and wiggles her way out of her pajamas.

"Fuck," he swears. There's a little pink bow on her panties and she's a goddamn present, with lace trim decorating the part of her he wants to see most. " _Fuck._ "

Maka shifts on her knees. She's a tease. She knows he's faithful to a fault and won't swap his steel for skin unless she asks it of him, and her hips sway as she plucks at that infuriating little bow. Goddamn does he want to lick her all over. _Goddamn_ does he want to taste her thighs and wrap her legs around his face and feel her writhe beneath his tongue and teeth. _Eater._

Those scarred little knuckles of hers drift in that delicate, tender valley between her breasts. Soul groans, the sound tinny and metallic, and Maka bites her lip. "Good boys wait," she says, cheeks pink, and more than anything else, he wants to take her dumb face in his hands and kiss her until she can't think. "Good things come to good boys who _wait._ "

"You have a freckle on your stomach. How did you even get a freckle there, that skin never sees the sun-"

Her fingers drum over her belly button, the lace trim of her panties, dance over the supple flesh of her inner thigh. Smart scythe boy stops talking and watches, instead. Smart scythe boy's mouth knows better to run itself when there is such a prize undressing before him.

Maka giggles shyly and cups her face in her hands. "I can't believe I'm doing this. I feel like Blair."

If he could shrug, he would. He watches her through the eye of his scythe instead. "It's just _me,_ " he mutters. "And you're not- you're Maka, that's why I'm into this, weirdo. Wouldn't sit here as a weapon for anyone else."

She has the eyes of a lover and the smile of a partner. " _Weirdo_ ," Maka scoffs.

"The _weirdest._ "

Their playful banter ceases when Maka shimmies her way out of her undergarments. When those lacy little undies launch off her ankle and into the pile of somewhere-else-who-fucking-cares, most rational thought takes a sharp left and follows her clothes off the bed. Naked Maka is so _cute._ Slim, soft, pale and pink, with boobs and hips and legs that never seem to end - it's incredible he's gone this far in life without knowing what beauty really looks like. It's incredible he's ever gotten hard for anything else. Porn will forever pale in comparison to Maka, bare, sitting on her knees in a Wyoming hotel room, hugging her arms to her pretty chest, pale pink scars dotting her torso.

They're a little weird.

But it's okay, because they're weird together, and it's a mutual, soul-pumping thing that inspires Maka to crawl toward him, hips swaying behind her like a cat, and there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be than right here.

She plants his pole on the floor, because hotel ceilings are low and he's kind of a giant weapon of soul-reaping destruction. Soul wonders briefly if he should add flagpole to his resume as he watches Maka stand, fingers curling possessively around the pulsing metal of his handle. He won't fit in the bed comfortably as a weapon, and while that does a little (a lot) for his ego (Soul " _Shaft"_ Evans, hurrhurr) it's also kind of an inconvenience.

There are sexy connotations to a naked meister wielding him - this is very much the stuff his teenage wet dreams were made of, give or take a flimsy plaid skirt or two - but his sheer size and mass makes getting to the fun part difficult. And yeah, his imagination is wild and he's horny as shit and practically vibrating in her hands, but he's not quite sure his bookworm of a partner has really thought through the schematics of getting her giant scythe off while simultaneously pleasuring herself. She's only like five foot three - her presence is big but her form is relatively small and adorable, and he's half considering some form manipulation and shrinking his blade down, like he often does every other time she's ever mounted him, when she takes a step closer and clutches his pole to the soft, delicate place between her breasts.

Which is awesome. Her boobs are awesome. What's even more awesome, though, is that wet, slick heat coating her thighs, and Maka kicks a foot up onto the edge of the bed to better elevate herself. Even without a sense of rhythm, that slow, sensual roll of her hips grinds her right up against his handle, and Soul will never sleep soundly again. The fact that any part of his ass-kicking, monster-punching meister can be so soft is distracting enough, but this heat is almost too much, and Soul wants with an urgency he's incapable of smothering.

He's absolutely sure his desires bleed through their resonance. He hopes they do. Maka should know what she does to him. Maka should know he wants to pin her hips to that damn, squeaky mattress and lick her until she's sobbing his name and pulling his hair, that he wants her to use him however she sees fit, _to get her off._

"Holy shit, Maka," he mutters.

Apparently English isn't in Maka's repertoire anymore. She pushes her hips forward and grinds meticulously against him, and oh, that's an interesting, slick little nub dragging against the flat of his pole, hello. Porn and the internet have told him what _that_ is. If he had hands, he might be tempted to rub it a little, circle it with a firm thumb, just to see if it's as sensitive as it's fabled to be. As it is, Maka seems to have a hard time standing, knees wobbling, lip sucked up beneath her teeth.

Fuck, does he want to be the one biting her lip. Later. _Later._

She crumbles, as if the exertion is too great for her legs, and she presses her cheek against his heated metal as she sucks in a breath. That trembling in her thighs is distracting, but from his elevated, birds-eye view, he really can't see much. Demonsteel is only so malleable, and while he tries to bend and contort to better watch his meister merely breathe, Maka presses a soft kiss to his handle.

It sends a zing straight to his metaphoric heart. It's so sweet, and so very chaste, compared to that humid, flustering place between her thighs, and it has Soul sputtering, "Maka," right as she curls a little smile on her face.

"You're always so warm," she mumbles.

"Mmm," he hums. It's hard to maintain intelligent conversation when Maka's rediscovered the use of her tongue. If only he could look into her eyes as she pulls the flat of her tongue up his handle. If only his brain didn't automatically translate her licking him into something decidedly more phallic. "Mmh, _haah,_ Maka, do you need- what do you need?"

She leans him back, lets him rest against the edge of the bed. She sits, bare-assed on the carpet, legs spread not-so-ladylike, cheeks burnt. Her toes are painted baby pink. There are a lot of pink things about her.

"You," she says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "What do you need?"

For her to come all around him, thighs shaking, body trembling - he's not a picky guy, not really, and he's game for it no matter the journey. How can he get Maka Albarn to have an orgasm while maintaining his scythe form? And if he does, will she let him touch her while he is man, too?

Maybe she hears that. Her eyes go dark, sheer smoke and sex, and then she's reaching out for him and falling onto her back, nestling him neatly between her legs. The way he glides against her, kissing her pussy so maddeningly - Death, and the way her head falls back and hits the carpet as she _moans_ \- it's sensory overload, and if he were flesh, he's sure he would have lost his load like the oversexed virgin he really is. But because he's metal, and there are no physical dicks to speak of on him, he can't blow it early (or at all) and instead is treated to watching Maka use him to work herself up.

And she works. And _works._ Stubborn, stubborn Maka. He likes that resilience in her. He likes it a lot.

The way she moves is beautiful. The arch of her spine, especially, is elegant, tits peeking barely over the bends of her ribs, nipples perked and rosy, so rosy - and her hipbones, like tiny, pale islands, so pronounced and lovely and just such a tempting place for his hands to rest someday - Maka gasps and puffs, little bits of "ah, _ah,_ " as she presses him to her folds, dragging him over her clit over, and over, and over, and wow, okay, maybe she doesn't need actual penetration at all.

Something breaks within her and he feels her soul expand impossibly so, ballooning bigger and bigger until the coil snaps. Their bond is blown wide open, and she's coming, and the world is crashing and she's fighting to break the surface of the ocean and swim free and she's so beautiful, so hot, all high pitched and girly and breathy.

He clatters to the ground beside her noisily. For a while, he doesn't speak, just sits and thinks on the scene he's witnessed, thinks on how massive of a boner he's going to have when he's flesh and blood again. Her breathing calms, and only when it seems like Maka has returned from the stars does he mutter, " _Fuck._ "

She gives an elated, satisfied little giggle. "Mmmhm. We did."

"That was- you-" he tries to collect himself, but she's still naked, and now she's rolling over to look at him, dragging one finger down the sharp edge of his blade. "-Haaaaah, Maka, _sensitive._ "

Her smile is evil and wonderful. "You're so sharp, Soul."

"No kidding. Gentle, would you? I don't want to accidentally slit you open."

"You'd never hurt me," Maka says, beaming. Fuck she's pretty. Fuck, he's head over heels. "Never on purpose. Not if you could help it."

"Duh. Kind of live to keep you safe, you know."

But she keeps tracing his blade with that nerdy precision of his. She has this way about her, with a furrowed brow, like she wants to know everything in the world and nothing can stop her from sateing her thirst for knowledge. He is a scythe used for cutting monsters in half. He is sharp. Maka doesn't even seem a little bit worried about the very-real possibility of him accidentally splitting her skin open and bleeding all over the shitty hotel carpeting. Will they have to pay extra if they stain the floor red? Does Kid's shiny platinum credit card cover sex-related injuries?

"Maka," he says again.

She scoots forward and presses a kiss to the flat of his blade, right on the reflection, where his face is. He can almost feel her lips on his cheek, so gentle and sweet, and fuckitall, he's blushing like a school girl. "I trust you. Do you trust me?"

Is that even a question? "With my life, Maka. You know that."

Her tongue peeks out between her lips. _Oh._

Fearless Maka licks his blade. Fearless Maka doesn't see anything wrong with pulling her tongue along the sharp, sharp edges of her murder weapon. Death Child through and through, she licks him so tenderly, so slowly, and he's definitely not strong enough to resist the enticing pull of her soul again. His metal feels like it's melting, like demonsteel has instantaneously become wet clay in a mere matter of seconds, and when Maka asks him to transform again, well, who is he to deny his meister anything?

The transformation is almost jarring. To be flesh again almost comes as a shock - and yes, there is that erection he'd been counting on, hello. But Maka's so close, and she's kissing his jaw, little pecks here and there that are both sweet and blood-burning, so he's not quite sure what to do about the party in his pants. Some post-orgasm snuggling is probably on the menu, but Soul's rather hungry, and Maka doesn't slow her fine-brewed torture any.

With arms, he can hold her. With hands, he can touch her, and he takes advantage of this fact immediately. Maka squeaks when he cups her ass in his hands and drags her against him, chest to chest, greedily devouring her lips with his own. He kisses her, mouth slanting, without preamble, and Maka fists her hands around the waistband of his sweatpants greedily. Which is fine. He wants her to call the shots still - and _wield_ him - if that's what she'd like.

But he'd really kind of like to kiss her a bit first. And maybe find out if she finds his fingers as fuckable as his scythe.


End file.
